


Music To My Ears

by CosmicCole



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Geralt is a switch and no you cannot change my mind, Jaskier is a power bottom, Kinda, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of other couples - Freeform, Multi, Slow Burn, Yennefer and Geralt are going to be mentioned and canon compliant, Yennefer is a domme and i will die on this hill, bi bros being bros, but this is still a Geralt/Jaskier fic, for me anyway, geralt is lowkey highkey soft and you can fight me, poly guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicCole/pseuds/CosmicCole
Summary: Geralt had no use for a bard. Until he did. These two idiots love each other in every possible way and Geralt knows it’ll get one of them, or both, killed.Neither of them mind.Unbeta’d as always.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 264





	Music To My Ears

“I love the way you sit in the corner and brood.”

God, his speaking voice matched his singing voice. Light, pleasant, curious, playful. The curls, the cheeks, his smile and those shining eyes. Geralt scowled a bit, wishing the Bard would bother someone else.

“I’m here to drink _alone_ ,” Geralt stressed, eyeing the scrawny man. Something in him softened, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he was so entirely non-threatening that Geralt felt weirdly relaxed around him? Between humans and monsters-both of which usually wanted to kill him-the Witcher rarely felt relaxed.

“No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except...” he looked so fucking eager, although he played it off well. The mutant could smell it on him, and the way he fiddled with his drink and peeked at Geralt sheepishly was a dead giveaway even if he didn’t reek of it.

“Well,” he smiled, “Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with...bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less?”

He sat down. Eager.

Geralt certainly had a host of “reviews” but he decided it was best to ignore the bard so he might go away.

“They don’t exist.”

_Oh god why was he talking?_

“What...don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.”

“And how would you know?”

The bigger man looked annoyed.

The Bard seemed to finally register that he hadn’t settled into the booth with any old broody bar fly. His face went from confusion to recognition and Geralt got the feeling it was probably time to go.

“Oh fun,” his hands moved in barely contained excitement. People reacted this way sometimes, with more curiosity than hate and it made the Witcher uncomfortable all the same. At least disgust, rage or fear made sense.

“White hair, big ol loner, two very,” his eyes flitted, nervous, “ _Very_ scary-looking swords...”

“I know who you are,” he leaned in, as Geralt dropped some money on the table to cover his tab.

Time to bail. He started to rise, eyes already on the door. He scooped up said swords, moving towards the exit with surprising grace and speed for such a bulking man in such a tiny tavern.

“You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

He kept moving. His eyes were locked on the exit as others turned to look at him.

“Called it.”

And that’s how the Witcher got stuck with disposing of a so-called devil while trying to also figure out how he got stuck with a bard too. Just what he needed, a misguided bard for a misguided quest.

The man had followed him into the streets quickly as Geralt fetched Roach and made about going to find a demon who steals grain. Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just because a scrawny singer was following him, lute in tow. He almost danced after Geralt and god it was so obvious that he loved it. That he was made for music and singing great ballads and spreading joy and mischief.

Things the Witcher decidedly wanted nothing to do with. The singer was distracting. Distractions got Witchers killed.

 _Focus_.

What kind of devil steals grain? Not even in the tall-tales of the fabled creatures had such a thing ever happened. Not that he could recall. Geralt was sure devils were just myth, but something was stealing grain. He had a few ideas, none of them good.

“Need a hand? I got two, one for each of the devil’s uh,” the cheery man paused, a bit lost on the subject. “Horns?”

“Go away.” The mutant grunted.

“I won’t be but silent back-up.”

Geralt side-eyed him.

“Look I heard your note, and yes, you’re right. Maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you sir,” he smiled at the massive man, “Smell chock full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion?”

The young man waved a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

He swayed a little as he spoke, eyes falling away. The musician sounded dreamy. Like he was already hearing the melodies in his head.

“It’s onion.”

Oh god. This skinny little man? Soft. Eating bread off the floor in a tavern. Probably never been in a fight before. Real adventures? How would Geralt manage to keep him alive? Cause he certainly wouldn’t last in his life. It was hardly an adventure to sing ballads about.

“Right. Yeah,” he straightened himself. “Yeah. Oh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the-the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Geralt was stopped by the pang in his chest. By the scent of iron and ash in his nose, a dying girl in his arms, a prophecy on her last breaths and in his dreams.

“Come here.”

“Yeah?”

So eager.

The Witcher punched him in the stomach.

Little shit.

“Come on, Roach.”

Geralt could have road away if he wanted to. The bard followed beside him on foot as he road Roach towards the hillsides, where the man said the devil lived. He must have been lonelier than he thought, to indulge this silly little man.

“Reading between the lines and the gut punches, chum,” he sounded a little sore about that still. But honestly, so was Geralt. He had to go and ruin his charm by bringing up that. Spoiling the mood.

Not that there was one.

“I’d say you have a bit of an image problem. Were I to join you on this feat to defeat the devil of Posada,” he regained his earlier enthusiasm with only a mild hiccup. “I could relive you of that title.”

He spoke with his hands, waving at Geralt in an exaggerated way. Again, the Witcher found his eagerness more endearing than he would ever admit out loud.

Ever.

“All the north would be too busy, singing the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the-the White Wolf or-or something,” again he was getting lost in the songs he could write. Arms outstretched in a way that reminded Geralt very much of someone dancing.

“Butcher is right,” he deadpanned. It was true. A killer like him. Again he was reminded that he could ride away. Leave the bard. Should. He would only get himself killed following around the Butcher.

“Mind if I hop up there with you? I’m not wearing the right footwear...”

“Don’t touch Roach.” Geralt snapped.

“Yeah. Right, yeah,” he held up his hands in surrender.

Geralt should go. Get away. This couldn’t possibly end well.

“The elves called this Dol Blathanna before bequeathing it to the humans and retreating to their golden palaces in the mountains.”

He hopped off of roach, tying him to a nearby tree as the Bard explained the history of the hillside and what it meant to the elves. Of course, the mutant knew all of this, and the truth of it, but he kept his mouth shut, hoping the bard would take the hint.

“There I go again, just delivering exposition.”

He didn’t.

“Geralt?”

The Witcher ignored him, not that it did much good as they ascended into the foothills of the mountain.

“Geralt? Wh-where are you going? Geralt don’t leave me. Hello?”

The Butcher rolled his eyes.

“What are we looking for again?”

“Blessed silence,” Geralt grunted out, annoyed.

There was a brief pause from the Bard.

“Yeah, I don’t really go in for that. Have you ever hunted a devil before?” He sounded curious.

“Devils don’t exist,” the mutant explained, creeping through the hills and grass while the bard strolled with him, oblivious. Geralt could sense it, something was off. He strained his ears to listen and paid close attention to the winds, but it was hard to detect anything other than the mouth of the Bard and the scent of grass.

“Right.” The Bard sounded almost disappointed. “Then uh...then what are we doing?”

“Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both.”

He eyed the high grass and bushes warily.

“That’s the life.”

He heard it before he saw it. Hissing metal. He jerked back, but the metal just grazed his forehead.

“ _Shit_!” The Witcher growled, kneeling to the dirt.

“Act two begins!” The bard exclaimed. “What was that? Looked like a tiny cannonball from a...oh my gosh.”

Geralt picked up the projectile which did indeed look like a tiny cannonball. He touched the shallow cut on his forehead, annoyed more that pained. First an obnoxious bard, now tiny cannonballs? His mood was souring.

“Geralt, it is a devil.”

Geralt gave him a look that was positively smothering, opting to keep his words to himself. The singer was staring off into the brush.

“Oh, I have to see this magical, this mythical-“

Geralt watched another cannonball collide with the yappy bard’s forehead, silencing the skinny man as he collapsed to the dirt. The Witcher peered around the brush, tugging at an overgrown bush to get a better look at where the projectiles had come from. He crept forward slowly.

“Leave me be!”

A normal man would have definitely been hurt by such a powerful headbutt. It sent him flying a good fifteen feet, but the Witcher was no normal human. He sprung to his feet no sooner than his back had hit the dirt, stalking forward.

What a strange creature. Half-goat, half-man, all ugly.

“You talk.”

It certainly was not a devil.

It charged again, Geralt caught him by the horns, using the creature’s momentum in tandem with his strength as he flung the beast into the dirt. He was on him in a flash, pinning the surprisingly strong creature.

“Of course I talk!” The creature bellowed, rage and fear thick in his voice.

“What happened with you? Your mother fuck a goat?” The Witcher had seen a great many things in his life, but never anything quite like this.

“I am Torque the Sylvan, a rare and intelligent creature!” He cried out, seeming more angry than afraid now.

“You’re a dick,” Geralt noted, grinning a bit. “With balls.”

“Balls I got from humans!” The Sylvan spat. “Humans who left out food filled with iron meant to poison me!!”

Torque ripped out a clump of the Witcher’s white locks, drawing an annoyed and pained grunt from the beast of a man.

“Did your mother fuck a snowman?!”

Well, it was intelligent enough to understand sarcasm. Geralt punched him squarely in the nose.

“You are intelligent, I’ll give ya that,” he shook his head, equal parts amused and bothered. What a troublesome quest. “So I won’t kill you, but you can’t stay here.”

Geralt leaned back, releasing the Sylvan who looked genuinely surprised.

“Neither can you,” the creature said, a bit breathless. But he was looking behind Geralt.

The Witcher turned, suddenly aware of the presence behind him, but it was too late. The only thing he saw was the bottom of a boot before his word was cast into blackness.

He should have been paying more attention.

The mutant woke up tied to the Bard and began struggling against his restraints. Fuck. He knew this would happen. Getting involved with others never worked out well. Especially the cute ones.

“This is the part where we escape.”

“This is the part where they kill us,” he spat.

“They? Who’s they?”

The elf entered right on cue, storming over to kick him, spitting out her distaste in Elder.

“Elves.”

She kicked Geralt again, ripping a pained groan from his lips as his head snapped up from the impact. The sound of her hit accompanied by the sad sound of a lute being torn apart filled Geralt’s ears.

“Oi, that’s my lute! Give that back,” the Bard struggled a bit, panic in his voice.

“Quick, Geralt! Do your-your witchering—“

“Shut up!” Geralt snapped, furious. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t flapped his gums the Butcher could have enjoyed a nice quiet drink and left, instead he had been roped into a quest.

“No!”

“ _You shut up_!” The Elven woman spat out in Elder.

“My Elder speech is rough, I only got part of that,” the scrawny man replied sarcastically.

“Humans, shut up,” she repeated in the common tongue, her Elder accent thick.

“ _Ah, got it, thanks so much_ ,” the bard quipped in sloppy Elder.

“Do you want to die right now?”

“As opposed to later?” Geralt grunted.

“No please not the lute-“ Jaskier cried as the woman kicked him in the gut while her companion ripped apart the Bard’s beloved instrument.

“Leave off!” Geralt demanded. “He’s just a bard.”

Said bard was panting, trying to catch his breath. The elf struck Geralt in the face, he winced as the other elf continued to rip apart the lute.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe!” She spat. The lute made a dying noise. “Everything you touch, you destroy!”

She punched him again as her companion snapped the mangled instrument in two over his knee. Geralt groaned. She gripped his hair, yanking his face up only to strike him again. He tasted iron and felt rage boil inside his chest.

“You hide in your golden palaces. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” The bard was outraged, screaming at the elven woman.

“Do you like my palace, hmm?” She gestured to the caves around her. She knelt down before the Witcher, tilting his chin up to meet her venomous gaze. “Does it live up to the tales you humans tell?”

He headbutted her, she cried out, falling back into the sand. The Bard laughed.

“Yeah, take that pointy,” he spat as the woman fell into a coughing fit in the dirt. She wheezed, trying to draw air into her lungs, but it only made more choking coughs fall from her lips.

“Wait, wh-what’s wrong with her?”

“She’s sick,” the Witcher explained, he could smell it on her when she had kneeled before him.

“Oh and who’s this?” Jaskier eyed the entrance as a golden-haired elf entered with the Sylvan, coming to the aid of the woman elf.

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves.” The Sylvan explained.

“Not a King,” the beautiful golden man corrected. “Not by choice.”

“You were stealing for them,” it clicked in Geralt’s head. No creature could eat as much grain as they had claimed was stolen. Of course the Sylvan was stealing for the elves.

“I felt for them,” the creature’s voice was sad, but still deep and gravely. “They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.”

“Forced out?” Jaskier sounded confused. “No they chose—“

“Do you know anyone who would choose to leave their homes? To starve? To have a Sylvan steal for them?” The King hissed, rage momentarily passing across his lovely face as he eyed the bard with barely contained contempt.

“Toruviel,” the Sylvan turned his attentions to the gasping she-elf. “No one was supposed to get hurt.”

“What’s two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?” She spat at the Sylvan.

Sick, weak. A dying race. Geralt felt for them. He really did. The king and his people hiding in the mountains. Their power, their great dynasties and cities and magic.

Gone.

“One human!” The Witcher snapped. “You can let him go.”

“Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing.” The King explained as he rose from the elf’s side. “The humans will attack. Many will die...on both sides.”

The King stared down at the Witcher.

“The lesser evil,” the Butcher nodded, pain and rage filling in his chest. Fuck he really hated that thy never seemed to understand. Evil. Greater. Lesser. It never did matter in the end. He looked up to the King.

“No matter what you choose, you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me.”

“That’s the problem,” the King knelt before him, expression and tone softening. “I can’t.”

“This is necessary.”

“I understand,” Geralt held his gaze. “As long as you understand that it won’t be long before you follow me in death.”

“Yes,” The beautiful King almost whispered, “Because they pushed us from viable soil. Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic.”

“Chaos is the same it’s always been,” Geralt said calmly, he could feel Filavandrel’s pain. The weight of it must be agonizing. “Humans just adapted better.”

“You say adapt and I say destroy,” the King glared.

“You are choosing to starve. You’re cutting off your ear to spite your face.”

The King almost interrupted him, indignation on his face. He waited until Geralt finished before he spoke, “You think this is about _pride_!? My elders worked with the humans and got robbed of all they had.”

Geralt sighed. He wasn’t wrong. 

“And when they fought back, they were slaughtered,” the King’s voice trembled, his eyes welling with pain. “‘The Great Cleansing’ humans called it. I called it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved.”

Geralt could hardly stand to look at the King as the pain of memories flashed across his face.

“I don’t want to bury anyone else.” The elf meant it. His hand went to the blade on his hip.

“I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers, now I am Filavandrel of the Edge of the World. If I bring my people down from the mountains it would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They would make slaves of us. Pariahs of half-blood children.”

This was what the Butcher had been hoping to avoid. He heard rumors that the elves lingered in the mountains.

Geralt didn’t want to fight them. Of course, he could sense such feelings in the King as well. The King was beautiful, and pain washed off of him in waves. It grew as he spoke, the horrors he had endured. Poor King. Pretty King.

That’s what he thought anyway.

“Go somewhere else. Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans you are more than what they fear you to be,” Geralt pushed.

“Like you Witcher?”

The blade danced across his flesh. Contempt in the eyes of the King.

Geralt smiled sadly, “I have learned to live with them, so I may live.”

“Please, my King,” the she-elf spoke up, as if sensing the King’s unwillingness to kill. “There are others. A new generation. Evellien who wish to fight. Let’s take back what is ours!”

Her lust for human blood was understandable, but unforgivable. She wanted war. Stupid woman.

“Wait!” The Sylvan pressed between them.

“Torque, stand aside.” They shoved him away.

“The Witcher could have killed me,” the creature pushed. “But he didn’t. He’s different. Like us.”

“If you must kill me, I an ready,” the Butcher grinned. “But the Sylvan’s right. Don’t call me human.”

They weren’t going to kill him. Even though he was ready to die.

When he looked up to the ceiling, it was with a smile. Poor King. This was why his people died. He was no killer. Humans were. Sometimes, Geralt felt that was the only thing he had in common with them.

“Kill me, I’m ready,” the bard imitated Geralt’s gravely voice comically as they descended the mountains.

“That’s the conclusion then,” he called to the Witcher. “They just let us go and you give all of Netty’s coin to the elves?”

He sounded disappointed.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Filavandrel’s lute not gift enough for you?”

The bard beamed, gazing lovingly at the instrument. Again, Geralt pretended it wasn’t incredibly endearing to see someone love something so much.

“Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn’t she,” he turned his gaze to Geralt, teasing at the strings of the lute fondly. “I do feel for Filavandrel though. He survived the Great Cleansing once. Who knows, maybe he can do it again. Be reborn.”

“Will the Elf King heed what the Witcher entreats? Is history doomed to repeat,” he stopped singing, shaking his head. “No, that’s-that’s shit.”

The Witcher still found it pleasant. Even if he didn’t wish to.

“This is where we part ways, bard.” Geralt eyed him, tone grave. “For good.”

“I promised to change the public’s tune about you,” he cast the Witcher a warm look. “At least allow me to try.”

And who was Geralt to say no to him, not when he looked at the Butcher like that. Not that the man would take no for an answer anyways. 

He seemed to find his tune, leading the way, with Geralt in tow.

“When a humble bard, graced to ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song~” damn, if Geralt wasn’t soft for him already. That voice. God he hated how much he loved it. It made his head swim.

No one had ever written a song for him before.

“From when the White Wolf fought, a silver-tongued devil, his army of elves, at his hooves did they travel,” his singing and strumming grew more confident, more passionate. “They came at me, with masterful deceit, broke down my lute, kicked in my teeth! While the devil’s horns, minced our tender meat, and so cried the Witcher ‘he can’t be bleat’-“

“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt interrupted, tone almost scolding. Still, he fought back a grin. “Where’s your newfound respect?”

The bard shrugged. “Respect doesn’t make history.”

Oh Geralt was certainly doomed.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh Valley of Plenty, oh Valley of Plenty, oh~”

That voice did something to him. Got him all tangled up. No one had ever wanted to change how people viewed a Witcher. Hell, not even Witchers had bothered. So why? It made his head spin. Geralt felt himself more on guard suddenly. This pretty man, this eager man and his stupid songs and stupid smile and stupid lute?

God this would be the death of him.

What sort of tragic songs would the bard write for him then? Would he weep over his lute as he sang the ballads? 

“Jaskier,” the Witcher called. “Stop singing.”

The bard laughed, and damn if that wasn’t music to Geralt’s ears too.


End file.
